Out of Nowhere(42)

Xavier sounds so hopeful that for a second I allow myself to imagine what it’d be like to tell him.

“What? No, man, no. I just wanted a little more free time. You know how it is.”

X narrows his eyes. “You hate free time.”

I roll my eyes. He knows me pretty well.

“I’ve been, um, volunteering. At this youth center. I’ve been teaching the kids about cars, basic repairs, that kind of thing.”

“That’s great, man,” X says, looking genuinely pleased. “But I don’t get it. Why would Pat have a problem with that? It’s not like there aren’t enough hands around the place on Saturdays, right?”

“Oh, well, I didn’t tell him about that. It shouldn’t matter why I want the time, right? I mean, I’m a fucking adult; he doesn’t need to know where I am twenty-four-seven.”

X nods, but his eyes narrow again like he doesn’t quite believe me.

“So, how’s Angela?” I ask before he can say anything else.

He leans back in his chair, his expression so familiar that I’m flooded with warmth for him. It’s the same combination of affection, frustration, and puzzlement that he used to get about girls when we were sixteen.

“She’s all right.” He clears his throat. “She, ah, she wants us to have a baby.”

“Oh shit. Are you into it?”

X smiles a little and cracks his knuckles. “Maybe? I dunno, man. Kids are great; it’s just….” Kids love Xavier. He always picks them up and flips them upside-down and stuff, and they scream with laughter. I can definitely see him as a father. “I don’t know what my problem is. Every time she brings it up, I panic. Not that I don’t want to go for it. More, like, I just can’t picture what shit would be like with a kid, you know?”

I nod. Yeah, I definitely know. But, then, if you’d asked me if I could picture myself volunteering at a queer youth center, I probably would’ve punched you. And picturing myself spending time with someone like Rafe? No way.

“Anyway, she’s pissed because she says I’m desperately clinging to my youth as it recedes and that it’s time to get my head out of my ass.” It’s clear from the way X says this that he’s quoting Angela. She has a particular way of speaking. She never stumbles in her speech or has to pause to search for her words. Everything’s delivered like a line from a play.

X changes the subject, telling me about some of the guys we used to play football with who he’s been in touch with on Facebook. The diner is filling up, and my mind doesn’t stay on Kyle Healey and Jackson White and whatever the hell they’re doing now.

“All right, Colin, get to the point, would you?”

“What?”

“Come on, man, you’re taking time off from the shop and being all secretive about it, and you call me up, ask me to meet you for breakfast—which you never do—and now you’re zoning out. You got something to get off your chest, just say it, ’cause your… whatever is making me nervous.”

He gestures to the table in front of me where I’ve forced everything—sugar packets, condiments, jelly pods, napkins, crumbs, and cutlery—into a tight grid pattern. I clear my throat and try to force myself to mess it up, but X waves me off.

“You okay, bro?”

I nod, but now that we’re here, I don’t even know exactly what I want to ask him.

“Um. You don’t—do you know anyone who’s been in prison?”

“You in trouble, C?” Xavier’s immediately on guard, leaning in to me, his expression fierce. I relax a little. This is the guy who’s known me since we were freshmen in high school, the guy who’s always had my back.

“Nah,” I say. “Just, like, do you think… do you think someone who’s been in jail is… super fucked up?”

X looks confused. “Well, yeah, in some ways, because prison is terrible. But I don’t think only fucked-up people end up in prison if that’s what you mean.” He sounds like he’s measuring his words carefully.

“Fuck, I don’t know what I mean. I just, um—” I can’t tell Rafe’s personal business, even if it is to Xavier.

“Does this have something to do with these kids you’re teaching about cars?”

“Kind of.”

“Ah, look, C. It’s cool if you don’t want to tell me what’s going on. But, can I just—” He leans in, sounding almost apologetic. “Look, man, you’re… white.”

I laugh. “You only noticing that now?”

“Just, you know, you hear prison and maybe you think, yeah, the person did something wrong. But folks go to jail every day for the shit that white guys get away with. Like, remember, that cop caught you and Brian smoking weed in the park and let you off with a warning? My ass would’ve been in deep shit. For real. So, do I think people who’ve spent time inside are necessarily criminals? No way.